


glitter, fireflies, fireworks

by Prim_the_Amazing



Category: Red vs. Blue
Genre: BDSM, Bondage, Established Relationship, Felix Is A Shitty Dom, Kink Negotiation, M/M, Past DubCon, dom donut, past unhealthy relationship(s), sub locus
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-05
Updated: 2018-05-05
Packaged: 2019-05-02 18:06:48
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,455
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14550345
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Prim_the_Amazing/pseuds/Prim_the_Amazing
Summary: It was not a conscious decision to run into the arms of a man the exact opposite of Felix in every way, but that’s clearly what Locus has done.





	glitter, fireflies, fireworks

It was not a conscious decision to run into the arms of a man the exact opposite of Felix in every way, but that’s clearly what Locus has done. 

It’s mostly good. It’s mostly fantastic. Donut is kind and sweet and funny, and not at his expense. He’ll massage the knots out of Locus’ back for hours, getting him his favorite shampoo while living on a moon  _ somehow,  _ and fondly running his hands through his hair without suddenly pulling with no warning. He doesn’t argue with him endlessly, doesn’t disagree with him at every turn, doesn’t imply that something’s wrong with his mind. He just kisses him sweetly and calls him beautiful. 

It’s bad though, in that Locus doesn’t really know what to expect when they sleep together for the first time. He’s never seriously dated anyone besides Felix. A few one night stands here and there, most of them drunk to ease his nerves, memories hazy. And Felix, as he’s previously mentioned, is nothing like Donut. He can’t use him to extrapolate. 

Donut won’t want to bite his lips. He won’t want to scratch at his back. He won’t want to bark insults at him until he’s so furious he lunges, won’t want to wrestle and fight him down to the ground. Locus could always beat Felix in a battle of pure strength even if Felix was quicker than him, but he always let him win in that area eventually. He liked to be the one pinned to the floor, at complete mercy, even if Felix did nick the underside of his jaw with his knife a few times during, hand unsteady in the moment. 

He had hated Felix. But he he had liked some parts of him, just enough to stay along with everything else. He had in turn hated having sex with Felix, but had liked some parts of it enough to just let it keep happening. He liked the roughness, but he didn’t like the smug look Felix got on his face, like he’d won something instead of being handed it. He liked the way Felix did his utmost to keep Locus pinned and at a disadvantage the whole time, but he didn’t like how he kept insulting and snarling at him the entire time, arguing. He liked how overwhelming and distracting it all was, but not how quickly it was over. 

It’s too bad that he can’t have the things he likes without the things he doesn’t. That’s just the way sex is: either loving and soft, or hard and hateful. Because who would want to be rough with the person you love? What kind of  _ normal  _ person? 

Locus knows that he’s the strange one here. 

  
  


Donut does his utmost to make every one of their date nights romantic, because that’s the kind of person he is. Candles, walks on the beach to watch the sun set or the stars twinkle, lovingly crafted meals with complicated desserts and hands held across the table. 

Locus hasn’t ever been on a date, unless a drunken night at a bar or a bloody mission counts as a date, so he’s not entirely sure how normal this all is. It all feels vaguely familiar, from movies and commercials, but he’d always thought that was just cartoonish exaggeration. But he likes the food and the walks and the talking and holding hands, so he supposes it doesn’t matter. 

Tonight though, he’s gone overboard in a way that makes him certain that Donut’s working up to something. 

Donut came and picked him up from his room as if they don’t live in the same building, and they eat a three course meal in his room so that they won’t be interrupted by other Reds and Blues constantly walking through the kitchen. Donut takes his hand and rubs tender circles into it with his thumb, smiles at him lovingly across the table in a way that makes Locus’ ears burn, clearing his throat awkwardly. 

There’s also the way there’s rose petals strewn across the covers of Donut’s bedspread only feet away. That’s also a pretty good hint of his intentions. 

“Locus,” he says, when they’re done with their tiramisu. “We’ve been dating for a little over a month now.” 

They have. He’s not entirely sure if that counts as taking it slow or not. He feels that his past experiences are unusual, and thus any guesses on his part will be biased and inaccurate. He nods confirmation. 

“And  _ if it’s fine with you,” _ he stresses, “I’d very much like to take this to the next level.” 

He vaguely remembers his and Felix’s first time. He’d dived at him after one of their first jobs, bloody and action packed, won by the skin of their teeth, but  _ won. _ He hadn’t seen it coming at all, had been thinking about showering and sleeping and patching himself up and just exactly how much of what they just did was legal or ethical, but he’d gone along with it. It had been good and bad, like a lot of Felix is. Was. 

A romantic intimate dinner and a carefully asked question is definitely different. He’d been right; he can’t use Felix to extrapolate. He won’t be able to accurately anticipate what’s going to happen. 

That doesn’t stop him from trying, though. 

It’ll be soft. It’ll be loving. It’ll be vaguely disappointing and dissatisfying (which is completely unfair to Donut), but it’ll also be completely and totally safe, not upsetting in the slightest. He can absolutely do that. It’ll even be enjoyable, if not exactly what he craves.

“Hon?” he prods him, and he remembers himself and nods. 

“Yes,” he says belatedly. “I am fine with taking this to the… next level.” 

He looks at him with his light blue eyes, and Locus feels uncomfortably seen. And then he smiles again. “Great! Do you want to talk about what next level entails, though? Just to make sure we’re on the same page. I’d hate to cock this up.” 

Oh thank god,  _ yes. _ That’s allowed? Just clearing everything first before it happens so that there’s no surprises? Locus is so fine with that. Maybe Donut won’t notice that he doesn’t really know everything that goes into normal sex, isn’t entirely familiar with it. 

“I would,” he says more firmly. 

Donut’s smile does something strange and unfamiliar and thrillingly  _ alluring, _ then. It goes wicked. Locus stares, entirely unused and unprepared for that look on Donut’s face. 

“Wonderful,” he says, and his voice is a little less of a peppy chirp now and more something… hungry. Just slightly. Locus takes a sip of his wine, feeling suddenly dry mouthed. “How do you feel about gags?” 

He splutters on his sip, coughing. Donut hands him a napkin with a speed that makes him mildly suspicious that he deliberately timed that question, but his mind is too distracted repeating that sentence over and over in his head for him to think about that too much. 

“Gags?” he asks, voice a little raw from the coughing and definitely nothing else. His mind spins. He may not have a whole lot of experience outside of his one disastrous relationship, but he knows enough to be certain that gags are  _ not _ a normal sex thing. They’re a hard and hateful sex thing. A Locus and Felix thing. He’d been wary before, knowing that he wouldn’t know what to expect and braced for surprise, but he’d never be able to guess _ this. _ Does Donut…  _ not _ love him? Like him? Is their relationship closer to what he and Felix had? He grits his teeth at the thought. 

He nods. “Are you interested in them? Or  _ could  _ you be interested in them? Or are they a definite no? I have to admit I’m a bit partial to them myself, they make  _ such _ a pretty picture…” 

Gags. Putting duct tape on panicky hostages to shut them up. Felix insulting him and being unable to snarl back denials because his dick was thrusting into his mouth. He bites back a grimace at the thought, the memories. 

“Maybe not,” Donut says before Locus can open his mouth to try and figure out how to say no, _ if  _ he should say no. “It’s not like you’re much of a talker, and I am looking forward to hearing you.” Another one of those new devilish smiles that makes Locus feel abruptly hot, makes his thoughts slip through his fingers for just a moment. “Blindfolds?” 

No visibility, night vision mode broken in the fall, where are the enemies, are there enemies in the vicinity? How is he going to hit them with his gun in the dark? 

The moonbase’s location is a highly guarded secret, it’s trapped up to high heaven, alarms everywhere, there’s a dozen other soldiers here on his side with guns and at least two of them are satisfactorily competent to his standards. He could just  _ take the blindfold off. _

Why does Donut even want to put a blindfold on Locus? And then it occurs to him, why is Locus assuming that Donut wants to put the blindfold on _ him? _ What if he wants it on himself? Maybe Donut is strange like Locus as well, wants to be held down and hurt just right. Donut who’s never been captured and tortured, Donut who’s never had a partner who slowly hollowed him out on the inside for years, Donut who’s never done the kind of things Locus has done. The idea leaves him feeling strange and unbalanced. If that’s not why Locus likes those things then why-- 

_ It’s not like you’re much of a talker, and I am looking forward to hearing you.  _

Donut isn’t like Locus. Of course he isn’t. He feels himself relax as reality reasserts itself. Even if it is still strange and a little bit alarming that Donut likes the same kind of things  _ Felix _ did. Why do they have that in common? Why did Felix like the things he did? Why was he the way he was? Why-- 

“You look like you’re in deep thought,” Donut comments. 

Locus blinks rapidly as he’s brought back to the present, focuses on Donut who’s looking at him carefully, trying to read him. Realizes that he’d just started obsessively thinking about Felix again, mid conversation, and avoids eye contact as he takes another drink of his wine. He managed to sleep around those other times when he was drunk. Maybe if he could just have another few glasses…

Donut is not a one night stand, he’s his serious hopefully long term boyfriend. Locus won’t be drunk for this. Donut is also waiting for him to speak up already. 

“I,” he says, has to stop to clear his throat for a moment. “I would… not like to wear a blindfold,” he says haltingly. That’s his decision. _ His. _ He still worries if it’s the right one, watches Donut’s reaction closely to see if there’s anything obviously wrong with it that he isn’t noticing. 

He smiles at him, genuine and warm. “Sure!” he says with a wave of his hand, as if waving the possibility of blindfolds away, as if he doesn’t care that it’s off the table. Even though he must like them if he brought them up in the first place, right? “No blindfolds. How about…” He puts a finger to his lips (glossy, full, and he’s struck with the sudden and random urge to kiss them as he is many times a day) thoughtfully, considering for a moment. He brightens as an idea apparently comes to mind. “How about being tied up?” 

He imagines it with abrupt vividness, the image springing to mind like it had just been waiting for a decent opening line. Thick, unyielding rope around his wrists and ankles, tying him down securely with knots he knows for a fact that he can’t get out of, his sword and his gun out of reach, Donut standing above him with that wicked smile. 

It’s so stupid. He doesn’t want to wear a blindfold because it makes him feel weak and unsafe, but being tied up is fine? (It might be fine if Donut’s with him.) What’s the internal logic of that? 

If he was tied up, he wouldn’t need a knife at his throat to keep him still. He licks his lips without thinking, his heart hammering in his chest and his blood warming up at the thought. It might be fun. He has no idea why he finds this kind of thing enjoyable, can’t properly put it into words that make sense, but… it’s a very appealing idea. Almost no one can pin Locus for more than a few seconds, and definitely not Donut while he’s distracted, and now he could get that  _ without _ being held at knifepoint. He’s never had that. He  _ wants _ it. 

“How about I show you some of the options?” Donut says, sounding absolutely delighted at the opportunity. 

Locus blinks. “Options?” 

“Options!” he confirms brightly as he pops up off his seat and walks towards his bed, as if that explains anything. He goes to his knees and then bends so that he can look underneath the bed, one of his hands holding the hanging covers away so that he can see properly, and Locus notices that there are boxes underneath his bed. Donut makes a considering humming noise, and then, “Ah ha!” 

Having found what he was searching for, apparently, he pulls one of the boxes out, stands up, sets it down on his bed, sits down on it as well, and pats a spot on the bed invitingly while looking at Locus. Curious, he gets up and sits down where indicated, the box between then. 

It’s an opaque plastic container, large enough that Locus could perhaps store his armor in it if he stacked it efficiently. He could fit a decent weapons arsenal into it. He doubts that that’s what’s inside of it. 

With a flourish and an impish glance at him, Donut unlatches the box and takes off the lid. Locus stares. 

Rope, at least three different kinds of them neatly coiled up and stacked. Multiple different handcuffs, some of them pinky and fluffy and others steel and sturdy looking. Cloth scarves, made of what looks like silk or cotton. A couple of metal bars that he can’t puzzle out the purpose of, with cuffs at the ends and a ring in the middle. 

“Any preferences? If you do want to be tied up, that is.” 

“Um,” he says, unable to tear his eyes away from the contents of the box. He’d jumped to thinking about rope as soon as the possibility of being restrained came up, but now that he’s faced with this plethora of unexpected choice he isn’t quite sure what to do. “Do you have one?” 

He’s supposed to be making his own decisions now, taking responsibility for his own actions. But… if it’s about something as insignificant as this, something so personal that isn’t going to affect anyone outside of this room, it’s… fine, right? 

“Oh, it _ is _ hard to pick,” he says, and Locus relaxes, relieved that it isn’t just him. Donut’s manicured hand comes into view, trailing consideringly over all of the-- the options. It pauses to rub a thumb against one of the silk scarves, crimson colored. “You’d look pretty in red,” he says musingly. The hand moves as Locus is still swallowing dryly, wondering just how tight of a knot Donut can tie. It settles by the cuffs. “Something  _ solid _ might be better for you though,” he goes on, tugging at the steel handcuffs, their chains jingling in the charged silence that Locus should probably be filling with some sort of response. 

“What are those?” he asks, desperate for something coherent to say, pointing at the metal bars. 

_ “Oh,” _ Donut says, and Locus finally looks up at the tone of his voice. His pupils seem to be a little larger since he last looked him in the eyes, his face just a touch flushed. “You don’t know?” 

He shakes his head. Donut clears his throat. 

“Well,” he says, and picks one of them up. “They’re called spreader bars. Your ankles, for example, can go into the cuffs and then--”

“I wouldn’t be able to close my legs,” he realizes. 

Donut smiles again, heated and encouraging. “Right.” 

_ He wouldn't be able to close his legs. _ He wouldn’t be able to kick or run or even stand up without help, and Donut could just-- he wouldn’t be able to stop him if he wanted to. To stop him from. Fucking him. 

His toes curl up inside of his shoes, heat rushing through him. He wants to open a window, take off his shirt, anything to cool off a bit. 

“Interesting,” he makes himself say because conversations need responses from both parties. His voice sounds just the tiniest bit unsteady. 

Donut puts the spreader bar back down. On the bed, not in the box. “We’ll put that in the… strong maybe pile?” 

He mutely nods. Donut grins at him. 

“Okay, so a spreader bar for your ankles… what about your hands? Want anything for them?” 

“The cuffs,” slips out of his mouth. “The steel ones.” 

Even he can’t brute force his way out of several inches of steel. 

“Great choice!” he praises, and Locus’ fingers grasps at his pants leg and the bed covers at the compliment. He reaches out and picks up a pair of the steel cuffs. 

“No,” he says, and he’s usually much better at not just blurting things out but his head is foggy with heat and praise and anticipation. Donut stops, shooting him a slightly confused look. “Take two pairs. I can dislocate my thumb to slip out of a single pair if my hands are close enough to each other.” 

He can. He has. It’s not like he’d do that to _ escape having sex, _ but he really,  _ really _ wants to be restrained. Properly, with him at Donut’s actual mercy, no holding back from taking any escape routes he might see. 

Donut stares at him for a long moment, and he belatedly realizes that what he just said might be a little strange. Some might even say crazy. 

But then he brightens right back up like Locus hadn’t been acting weird at all just a moment ago, and he picks up a second pair of cuffs. “Sure thing! Thanks for telling me, dear. Okay, I think that’s enough for tonight?” 

Locus nods. 

“Alrighty then!” And then he puts the lid back on the box, leaving behind the cuffs and the spreader bar, and he shoves it back into place underneath his bed. Left alone in relative privacy with the restraints for a moment, he gives them a look like they’re going to spontaneously animate and bite him. 

Donut pops back up and he wipes the look off of his face. 

“So!” he says, and sits back down on the bed, now even closer without the box between them, their knees brushing together. “Just a few more ground rules, and then I think we’re ready. Safeword?” 

“Safeword?” he asks. 

He nods, and then looks at him expectantly. Locus shifts uncomfortably, feeling like this is one of those things he should know but doesn’t. 

“What… is a safeword?” he asks. 

Donut’s expression goes kind of blank and uncomprehending, like Locus’ lack of understanding confuses him. They both stare at each other in mutual confusion for a moment, before Donut shakes his head a little. “I’m sorry,” he says. “I just kind of assumed! So you haven’t done something like this before?” 

“Something like what,” he says. 

“Kinky sex,” he clarifies. 

“No,” he says, “I have.” 

Donut stares at him for another long moment. Locus stares back. 

“Just… without safewords,” he goes on. 

“I suppose so,” he says. “Whatever those are.” 

“Well,” Donut says, and then again, “Well. Did you just stop when one of you said no, then?” 

“Not really,” Locus says. 

There’s another long moment of staring. Donut is usually much more eager to fill their silences with chatter. 

“And you where the sub?” he clarifies. 

“The what,” he says. 

“Oh my god,” Donut says. “The one on the bottom.” 

“Yes,” he says, nodding. 

Donut takes a long breath, eyes closed. Opens them. He’s frowning now. Locus frowns back, not sure what’s gone wrong here but not liking it. 

“Okay,” Donut says. “Okay. So. We’re gonna use something called the green orange red system. If I check in with you to see if everything’s alright with you and it is, say green. If you’re not sure if you like something but you don’t want to stop the sex, say orange and I’ll do something else. If you really don’t like something and want to take a break, say red.” 

That’s… huh. That’s strange. 

Locus is noticing that while Felix and Donut may both seem to like being in charge during sex, they both have drastically different approaches to it. Felix’s felt much more… organic, than this. Sex would happen out of nowhere, at any time and anywhere, whenever he felt like it. It all felt very natural, if not always good. Donut’s approach feels  _ planned. _ Dedicated equipment, a formal declaration of intent, negotiations before it happens and safety measures in place. 

… Locus has always liked preparing thoroughly before missions over Felix’s own impulsive improvisational style. He thinks he might like this very much, in fact. 

“That sounds efficient,” he says, and Donut gives him a little smile, taking it for the compliment that it is. The smile isn’t as big as he feels like it would normally be, though. “Is something wrong?” he asks. 

“No,” he hurriedly assures him. “Nothing at all! Well. Not now, at least. Everything wrong is behind us.” And then he leans up and kisses Locus. 

He closes his eyes and melts into it, having wanted to kiss Donut for a while now. His lips are so soft, so warm, and his lip gloss tastes so nice. Donut’s hand comes up and almost possesively curls around the nape of his neck, and Locus loves it. 

“You should take your clothes off,” he breathes against Locus’ lips as they part, and yes. Yes, he  _ should _ take his clothes off. He wants to, and Donut wants for him to. He starts unbuttoning his shirt with quick economic movements, his large fingers nimble with practice, and by the time he reaches the last button and looks up Donut has his own shoes, socks, and jacket off, his own shirt hanging open on him. 

He reaches out and touches this new bared skin without thinking about it, and it's warm and toned and he abruptly stills and flushes as he realizes that he just started touching Donut out of nowhere when he should be unclothing. He looks up at him (has to look up because he’s sitting and Donut is on his knees, he loves to look up) and tries to gauge his reaction. He’s smiling down at him with a fond look in his eyes. 

“You can touch,” he permits. “We are having sex after all.” 

Right, yes. Of course. He likes having permission, though. 

He slides Donut’s shirt off of his shoulders, his hands trailing across his skin, and he wonders when his touches will turn rough and his words mean even as he’s having a hard time picturing it. But his hands and kisses remain soft and sweet, even as he starts unbuckling Locus’ belt. Is there something he’s missing here? Some misunderstanding? Donut likes the same kind of things Felix liked, even if they have different approaches to it. To be in control. One wanted to be in control so that they could win, to lord it over the loser and have whatever they want. 

Maybe that’s it. Maybe even though Donut wants to be in control like Felix, he’s going to demand different things because he wants different things. What does he want--? 

Donut sticks his hand down Locus’ pants and it becomes harder to overthink things. He pushes him down and Locus goes down without a fight, head bouncing against the pillow. Donut’s hand is warm and smooth. Every inch of Donut feels smooth, except for the parts with scarring. He has an extensive skin care regiment. 

That nice, smooth hand leaves him, and a soft mournful, protesting sound slips out of him without his permission. 

Donut smiles at him, teeth bright white and perfectly even. He’d worn braces, he told him once while tipsy. “There’s no rush,” he says, sounding a little amused and a little something else as he looks down at Locus with dark hungry eyes. Eager. “I don’t want to rip all of the wrapping paper off of my gift before I’ve even put the bows and ribbons on it.” 

Bows and ribbon. Handcuffs and spreader bars. Locus shivers with want. 

Donut hooks his hands around Locus’ pants and boxers and drags them down, grabbing his socks along the way and tossing them thoughtlessly to the floor. He’d half expected him to stop and neatly fold them, but Donut doesn’t take his eyes off Locus for a moment. 

He bites his bottom lip briefly and then makes himself stop, feeling terribly exposed. No one’s seen this much of him since-- (he has to stop thinking about him, has to be in the moment, has to not muddle his thoughts and emotions and ruin everything.) 

“Look at you,” he coos, running an appreciative hand up his leg, and he can’t help but exhale just a touch too sharply at just that. “You’re going to look  _ amazing.”  _

So far, this is very, very different from his past experiences. Can’t have expectations. Gotta be careful. 

He lets Donut handcuff his hands to the bedposts, which is the opposite of careful. The click of the cuffs ring so clearly and loudly in his ears, and Donut squeezes his hand after he’s been secured. 

“Are they too tight?” he asks. 

“No,” he says. 

“Try and get loose,” he orders. 

He obeys, muscles straining, metal biting against his skin as he tries to get loose. Something hot coils at the bottom of his belly as he fails, his heart racing and his cock becoming completely hard. 

His physical reaction must be obvious, but Donut asks anyways, “Light?” 

He blinks, remembers. “Green,” he says, his voice already a little husky. His favorite color. 

Donut smiles at him and leans down, kisses him. Gentle and lingering, even though Locus is trapped and at his mercy, even though he’s already won. It makes heat flash through his body, makes him moan softly into the kiss. It’s so, it’s so… It somehow makes being restrained even  _ better,  _ the fact that Donut isn’t taking advantage of it to just do what he wants. 

(Maybe this is what he wants.)

“Spread your legs, hon,” he says, and Locus does, face hot and lips tingling from the kiss. “Wider.” 

Wider. His thighs slide on the sheets. The thread count on them is insane. 

Donut picks up the spreader bar and Locus watches as he cinches the leather cuff around his ankle snuggly. 

“Too tight?” he asks again, even though he’d kept his thumb underneath the cuff while he’d fastened it. (“So what if the hostages don’t have proper blood circulation? They’ll  _ live.”)  _

God, he’s usually better at brooding about Felix only when he’s alone. Focus,  _ focus.  _

“Locus?” Donut prompts him again. 

“It’s fine,” he says. 

He strokes his hand up and down Locus’ shin, almost comfortingly, and then he does the other ankle, cinching it off at the same hole as the other one. 

And then he smiles up at him and says, “Struggle.” 

He does, even though he’s certain he won’t be able to get out of this one. His legs strain and shake, and he barely gets an inch of give in any direction. At least the leather is easier on his skin than the metal. 

“You can stop now,” he says, a hand on his leg, and he does. 

And then he just lies there for a moment and lets it sink that he is fully, completely restrained now. Legs. Arms. No weapons in reach. No fucking _ clothes.  _

He makes a small helpless noise as Donut looks down at him, expression unreadable, eyes intense. 

“Light?” 

“Green,” he repeats. 

Donut hums and smiles, and then leans down to kiss him again. It isn’t deep, it isn’t with tongue. He just presses a kiss to his mouth, the corner of his mouth, his jaw, his throat, his hammering pulse, the corner where shoulder becomes neck, his clavicle bone, his pec, and then he finally settles in to mouth at his nipple, hot and wet and slow and thorough like he has all of the time in the world. He does. Locus is  _ stuck.  _

His breathing is fast, looking down to see Donut lapping at him. Is  _ this _ what he wants? To take Locus apart and linger over every inch no matter how long it takes? That’s, that’s nearly impossible to grasp but also it’s so  _ Donut, _ so perfectly him. 

Donut’s hand strokes down Locus’ torso, across his stomach, and he can’t help the way his muscles jump a bit at the motion. Donut stops sucking on his nipple and looks up to grin at him. “You enjoying yourself, sweetheart?” 

That wasn’t asking what color the light is, he thinks, so instead he just nods. 

Donut  _ hmms, _ and then strokes lower, hand curling around his dick. “How  _ much _ are you enjoying yourself?” 

He can’t answer that with a nod. “Very… very much.” 

Goddamnit. He’s never been all that good with words, which is why he prefers not to say more than he needs to.  _ Very much? _ He’s an idiot. 

“That’s good to hear,” he says, smiling at him, and the niggling little social anxiety in his head melts away like snow under sunshine. “I like knowing what you feel. If you’re fine with that.” 

Locus can at least give him that. He nods again, and Donut thumbs at the tip of his dick in a way that makes his breath catch. He grins at this, looking very proud of himself. 

“One moment, hon,” he says, and then he’s off the bed and crouching out of sight. He can’t move to see what he’s doing, restrained, and he swallows and makes himself calm down. There isn’t going to be any nasty surprises with Donut. Almost definitely not. 

He hears him rummaging around in one of his boxes. Hang on, is he getting another toy? Wasn’t that what the earlier discussion had been about? Agreeing about what they would and wouldn’t do, what equipment they would use? He strains against his cuffs a little, reflexively, and closes his eyes and thinks _ if you really don’t like something and want to take a break, say red.  _ Donut had said that. He wouldn’t have said that if he didn’t mean it, he wouldn’t give Locus some fake option as a test or a trap--

“Ah ha, there!” he says brightly, and Locus opens his eyes to see him popping back up with a bottle of lube in his hand. Oh. Oh, of course. That’s perfectly fine. They need that, really. He overreacted. (You’re so  _ paranoid.) _

Donut looks at him, and then he’s crawling onto the bed and over him, kissing him and gently running his hand through his hair, across his scalp. “Sorry for leaving you, dear,” he apologizes, kisses him before Locus can say anything about how obviously he doesn’t have anything to be sorry for, nothing even happened, he was a foot away for less than a minute. “I should’ve had that ready before we started, huh? Sorry.” 

“It’s nothing,” he says. 

“I’ll have it ready next time anyways,” he promises. 

His stroking hand catches a little at a hidden tangle in his hair, and his breath stutters. Donut stills in a way that bizarrely makes him think of a predator animal. 

“Locus,” Donut says. “Honey. Do you want for me to pull your hair?” 

“I,” he says, his voice a dry rasp, and doesn’t know how to go on. Yes. No. Maybe.  _ Sometimes.  _ Not always. Not whenever Donut felt like it. Not just anywhere where people might  _ see. _ Not when they’re arguing. 

He’s being weird again.  _ (All  _ of this is weird.) He doesn’t even argue with Donut. Or at least, it doesn’t feel like it. They disagree, Donut makes silly insults and splashes him with dishwater or throws pillows at him, but it all feels so light and airy and it blows over almost immediately every time. No hurt feelings, nothing ugly or bitter or lingering. Never. It almost feels fond. 

Green, orange, red. Could they use that all of the time? Would that be fair? Would that be reasonable? 

Donut is looking at him, patient and so absurdly perfect. 

“Now,” he says. “Just right now.” 

“Of course,” he says, accepting it instantly, like a yes isn’t a yes forever, and then he  _ tugs  _ at the roots of Locus’ hair and it’s like he’s pulling the moan out of him with his fingers. 

It’s so loud it’s like a declaration of defeat, but Donut doesn’t look smug or vindictive, just delighted and approving. Losing feels fun with him, he realizes. 

“Now _ that’s _ what I’m talking about,” he says, his grip on his hair tight and the thumb of his other hand rubbing circles into his shoulder like he’s hurting and comforting him at the same time, except none of this exactly  _ hurts. _ “Let me know how it feels, darling.” 

So this is one of the things he wants. For Locus to moan for him. That’s harmless. He can do that. The room is almost perfectly soundproofed, everyone's out having a beach party that the two of them somehow managed to flake out on thanks to Donut’s way with words. 

He leans down for another kiss, his hand fisted tight in his hair, and Locus makes a noise into the kiss. It’s not really all that loud, he’s not used to it. He too used to having to be quiet. 

But Donut says, “Good, you’re doing such a good job,” anyways, and then his mouth is on his neck and he feels  _ hot. _ He’s never had this, this has never happened before. Being held down and hurt, sure. Being held down, hurt, and  _ praised  _ for it? Like he’s doing something good? 

He likes this too much for his own good. 

Abruptly, Donut’s mouth leaves his neck and it’s too soon, and he lets outs a little bereft sound. Which. He’s supposed to be making  _ good _ noises, not  _ whiny _ noises--

“Oh, sorry,” Donut says. “I was just wondering, is it okay if I give you hickeys on your neck or should I stick to areas further south?” 

His brain takes a moment to catch up. To be subtle, right. He’d been so distracted he hadn’t even been thinking about  _ later,  _ which is how he likes it, but then he thinks about everyone squawking about his hickeys and, yeah, no, they aren’t hiding their relationship but no thanks. 

“Lower,” he says, and Donut complies, sinking down to his pecs. Locus eventually has to hold his breath but then he remembers that sound is good and he lets it all out in a shaky sort of sigh. Donut smiles up at him fondly after he’s sucked a few dark bruises into existence, and then he reaches out and picks up the bottle of lube that Locus has entirely forgotten about until now. He uncaps it with a flick of his thumb. Locus can’t look away from it. He pours himself a generous handful, rubbing his fingers together, and then he-- reaches down-- 

“Relax,” Donut tells him. 

Locus forces himself to relax, muscle group by muscle group, consciously making himself go slack where he lies. Donut’s dry hand strokes his thigh once in approval, and Locus has to focus not to let himself tense up again even though he liked it. 

And then Donut works his first finger in and Locus has to let his head tip back onto the pillow to sigh at the sensation again, the sound just almost skirting the edge of being a moan. 

“Do you want to be a little louder?” Donut asks, punctuating his question with a movement of his hand that makes Locus’ toes curl, his heart skipping a beat. 

“Yes,” he says, and even that word is a too quiet exhalation. He clears his throat. “Yes, I’m going to be--” a movement that makes him jolt with sudden pleasure, “--louder!” 

There’s that wicked look in his eyes again, almost mischievous except it’s a bit too heated for that. And then his eyes drop down from Locus’ face to-- where Donut’s hand is. He bites his lower lip like he likes what he sees, and then he slips in another finger. Locus’ breath shudders out of him, and he twitches down onto the fingers to little effect. Restrained. Helpless. At his mercy. A faint, deeply embarrassing whine escapes him, but Donut doesn’t give him enough time to be truly mortified about it because then he properly thrusts his fingers up into him in what he thinks might be reward. 

“Ah!” he says, nerves and skin tingling, and Donut’s so happy with that apparently that he bends over him to nip at whatever skin’s in reach of his mouth as he continues moving his fingers inside of him, and Locus groans helplessly. Can’t move, can’t touch his dick, can’t get friction, can’t get relief, can’t touch Donut back. He can only take whatever Donut sees fit to do to him and honestly  _ why _ is that so fucking hot? 

Normally this is where he’d lead himself into a long tangent about what’s probably wrong with him, but then Donut slips a third finger in and the question entirely slips his mind. Sex: the great distraction. 

“Tell me what you like, hon,” Donut says, voice a little huskier than it had been the last time he’d spoken up. Locus looks down at him to see that he’s started sucking hickeys  _ very _ far down south of his body. No one but him is guaranteed to see it. Him and Donut. 

“That,” he says, and he sounds different too. Gruffer? Gravelly? “I like that.” 

“Go on,” he says, and then goes back to sucking on his skin. 

“I like-- your mouth and, and your hands. How long your fingers are…” 

Donut’s hand rubs up and down his side, his other one curling up into him in that rhythm he doesn’t have the freedom of movement to properly meet. Just tiny shifts and twitches of his hips, not enough, not nearly enough. 

“I like this. All of-- this!” It’s getting a bit challenging to string together sentences. “Please,” he says, and that’s another surrender when you’re having sex, he knows. He never ever says it except Donut makes losing feel good and  _ really-- _ “I really-- really think I’m prepared enough, please. Please get inside--” 

There’s a moment where Donut hums faux thoughtfully, and it feels eternally long because Locus is suddenly certain that he’s just dragging out the moment before he says _ no. _ He  _ won’t _ fuck Locus after teasing him for who knew how long. Tied up, at his mercy--

“Well,” he says, “I suppose you  _ have _ been very good today.” 

A quick smile is flashed his way as he’s still reeling with relief, and then Donut grabs the lube, squirts out some onto his palm, and then smooths it out over his dick, much less ceremonious than he is with Locus. 

He lines himself up and then slides in, slow and smooth and holding onto Locus, bent over him, eyes closed and mouth open and brow furrowed and Locus wants to kiss that face but he isn’t close enough so instead he just looks and burns that face into his memory. Memorizes the way his eyes flutter as he opens them, the way the stretch of him is just shy of the side of too much, just the way he likes. Now his face is doing something gooey and sentimental as he looks down on Locus, always shamelessly emotional in a way that makes Locus envy and admire him a little. 

“Like I’d leave you hanging,” he says, voice a touch hoarse, hips carefully not moving as Locus adjusts to the size and feel of him inside of him. 

Being at someone’s mercy is much more pleasant when they actually have mercy, he realizes. 

“You can fuck me now,” he says, because he wants that more than anything right now. 

Donut thrusts up into him, and it’s been so long since he last did this and he feels like there’s glitter, fireflies,  _ fireworks  _ lighting up his brain, his heady mind grasping for any idiotic metaphor to try and describe the depth of just how _ good _ he feels right now. How could words possibly properly express this? 

He just moans, and Donut thrusts hard and fast and mercilessly into him, never stopping, never stopping the river of praise pouring from him. “You’re such a sweetheart, you’re so good, you’re so  _ tight, _ god--” 

Donut sees far, far too much good in him and he really doesn’t deserve to have this but he’ll  _ take  _ it, he’ll be selfish, he’ll have this and try and make up for it for the rest of his life, it’s fine, that’s fine, that’s a good way to spend the rest of his life and he looks forward to it. He wants it so much. 

He already has it. 

He  _ won,  _ somehow. 

“Donut,” he says, and it’s not a cry but is undeniably pleading. It’s fine. He can plead and he’ll get. “Donut, please.” 

“Okay, hon, okay, whatever you want,” he babbles, and then he curls his hand around Locus’ dick and that’s  _ exactly _ what he needed, what he wanted, he just knew-- oh _ fuck _ that feels good. 

He doesn’t last long at all, with Donut thrusting into him and his hand stroking him fast and steady and his terribly, entirely sincere words of love and praise filling the room and the way his leg muscles are starting to ache from being forced apart like this for so long and how the chains clink and rattle, unyielding around his wrists. Trapped and at his mercy and secure in the knowledge that only good things are going to happen, he’s safe, he’s nice, he’s on his side, they’re together. 

He comes, and Donut doesn’t stop thrusting for a moment, he’s fucking  _ ceaseless,  _ and then he’s coming too and he can’t close his legs and everything’s so good and all Locus can do is curl his hands into fists and let noises pour of his mouth. Glitter, fireflies, fireworks. Dizzying euphoria. 

Donut slips out of him slowly, and then he half collapses onto Locus to kiss him sloppily and sincerely. He kisses him back. 

“Okay,” Donut says. “Okay. Time to get you cleaned up.” 

And then he’s reaching for the nightstand for the handcuff key and letting him loose. His arms flop onto the bed and his shoulder blades cry out in relief so good it almost hurts in that way that he loves for no reason he can explain or understand. Next he opens his nightstand drawer and retrieves some baby wipes, neatly cleaning up the come from Locus before it dries. And then, he goes downs and he unstraps the leather cuffs of the spreader bar even though he could do this part himself now that his hands are free. He tosses the bar onto the floor with a bit of a clang and then falls down into the bed next to him. 

“You thirsty, hon?” he asks, exhaustion and satisfaction in his voice. 

“No,” he answers, voice ragged from how loud he’d been, and then he’s closing his legs and enjoying the burn of it, he’s shifting around until he’s curled around Donut, until Donut curls back around him. Cuddling. He’s never done it before. 

“... I think I’ve got flower petals on my ass,” he realizes out loud. 

This sends Donut into a giggle fit like Locus has just pulled out an absolute gem of a witticism. He recognizes it as that particular mood that hits you when you’re tired enough, when absolutely anything can be incredibly hilarious. That doesn’t stop him from laughing softly along with him, unable to stop even if he’d wanted to. And he can’t think of a single reason of why he’d want to. 

Clearly, he’s run into the arms of a man the exact opposite of Felix. It’s completely safe to be weak around him. 


End file.
